toy soldiers

I saw the morning
It was shattered by a gun
Heard a scream, saw him fall, no one cried
I saw a mother
She was praying for her son
Bring him back, let him live, don't let him die
- Under the Same Sun by The Scorpions

Hard to believe but the social and political climate of a place can even influence the kind of toys, children play with. You can see that in the news reports on your TV, kids with guns and grenades. My friends, my brothers - we were not much different.

We played with guns when we were kids. Not the plastic ones, not the one with bright blinking lights, not the one that plays different melodies when you pull the trigger; we played with guns made with our own hands. Guns that can hurt or kill.

A wooden plank/board, about half an inch thick. Cut it out in the shape of a rifle, with a V-notch near the butt/handle. In the old bicycles, the brake wires passed through steel tubes, about 1cm in diameter. Cut out this steel tube, about 1ft long. Mount it on top of the wooden plank and fasten it tightly with strips of rubbers cut out from the tubes of bicycle tires. This steel tube is the barrel.

Take out a spoke from the wheels of the bicycle. Cut it into 2 pieces, one about 2-3 inches, and let the other part remain as it is. Take the shorter one and bend it in the shape of an "L" and nail/embed one end of it on the slope of the V-notch that is towards the butt of the rifle. This is your trigger.

Now you need a catapult. Take out the strong rubber strip with the leather patch in the middle and fasten it on the rifle. The two ends of the rubber strip should be fastened at the front just below the barrel or the steel tube. Pull it back and let the bottom of the leather patch rest on the tip of the "L" shaped trigger.

And the longer spoke? That's your arrow or bullet.

Though our parents would scream bloody murder whenever they found out about our "toy" rifles, we kept on playing with them. We would shoot at tree trunks, and wooden or earthen walls. Target practice.

I heard from mom that one of my elder brothers accidentally shot me just near my eyebrows. Luckily, his gun was not well made and the steel "arrow" wounded me just a bit. Mom told me that she thrashed my brother for that and I always grin whenever I hear this story.

Don't know how much life has changed. Don't know how much of "my childhood" has remained with the kids out there.

Home is
where human lives come cheaper
than a packet of salt

Home is
where the bombs thunder
and the bullets rain

Home is
where sentences are carried out
through the barrel of a gun

Home is
where justice is blind
deaf and dumb too

Home is
where the mikes and the cameras
never hear or see

Home is
where the fathers
cremate their sons

Home is
where mothers banish young sons
to safer worlds outside

Home is just not for everyone